


A Box Where I Keep My Love

by Aelfay



Series: Levels!verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom John Watson, Don't worry, John Watson is a Responsible Dom, Just Not Like That, Levels!verse, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Sort of sub anyway, Sub Sherlock Holmes, They're all doms just some are higher than others, and the soldier will take very good care of him, despite being dom/sub this is a very softe relationship, despite leaving all the people in the club he knows Greg can take care of them, in this fic anyway, no subdrops here, our poor posh boy just wants the handsome soldier, they're fine, worldbuilding is hard okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 09:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10918920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelfay/pseuds/Aelfay
Summary: In the pursuit of a criminal, John agrees to use his dominance to keep things from getting violent. Sherlock suddenly feels his world change gears.





	A Box Where I Keep My Love

"It's fine, I can do it," John says quietly, and Sherlock's head whips around, eyes wide. 

"It is?" he says, bewildered, and John's head nods once, sharply.

"It's fine," he repeats. "It won't be the first time."

Immediately, a thousand questions burst into bloom in Sherlock's mind, starting with  _what was the first time?_  and continuing to  _why did I not know_  and finishing with _I've never had a chance,_ then.

John, in the meanwhile, is stripping off his jacket and discussing with Lestrade the sort of outfit that would be appropriate at this particular club. Lestrade leads John into a room that has plenty of random clothes left over from previous similar assignments, and Sherlock is left staring at the wall. 

He can picture it so clearly, now. How did he overlook it? Of course John would have had to use his dominance before. John carried a naturally strong dominance. Most people overlooked it, but Sherlock had seen it right away in John's stance. John was a contained sort of power, like someone boxed up a typhoon and set it quietly in the corner; Sherlock had seen the roaring wind inside.  _John, ordering "down!" and every member of the team drops to their stomachs in the sand instantly. John, telling a man "hand over the gun," and he does, eyes wide, knees buckling, not entirely sure why he obeys._

_John, calming a terrified hostage, running fingers through the man's hair. The man kneels at John's feet, resting his head dazedly on John's camo-clad thigh, as John easily directs the rest of the unit over his head._

Sherlock envies the man of his imagination even as he hates himself for being so blind -- what is the point of eyes, of a brain, if he can't even use them properly? -- but then John comes out from the other room, and Sherlock wants to sit down. Instead, he leans against the wall slightly, to take the burden off his weak knees.

John is all leather, dark glinting eyes, hair slightly mussed. Sherlock takes a deep breath, sniffing discreetly. Lestrade's hair gel. Dark leather jacket. Ripped jeans -- a bit of thigh -- there's a freckle-mole-thing showing and Sherlock wants to lick it, find out if it has a different texture than the rest of John's skin. He's staring for too long, at John's small feet clad in heavy boots, and then his eyes sweep to the (several, large) rings on John's fingers, up to the quirk of a smile on his face. "Yeah, I know, I look stupid," John says, self-deprecatingly, and Sherlock swallows.  _Not stupid. Not stupid at all._  

Sherlock is rapidly hating his own plan, but he can't think of a better one. Certainly not with his mind in this sort of a muddle. And so he clears his throat, ignoring the way Lestrade blinks at the ungraceful sound, and says, "You'll do for the part."

John's eyes twinkle with something like amusement, and Sherlock swallows, realising that John knows exactly how good he looks right now. Sherlock steadies himself on the wall again, then pushes himself back to fully standing. "You'll need to be --"

"Already got a mic on him," Lestrade interrupts, grinning. Lestrade and John had their little pissing contest, my-dominance-is-stronger-than-yours, ages ago when John moved in. John won, but George seemed rather pleased by that, actually. Sherlock didn't understand it, but then he was only playing the part of a high-degree. Maybe he should have pretended to be more threatened by John's natural talent when they'd first met? But even a stronger dom would need a flatshare. 

"Yeah, and the wire itches all the way down my back," John grumbles, shifting, "so can we move on, please?" 

Sherlock swallows, nods, and leads the way out, turning away from the ( _tempting, lush, heady_ ) view of John. It helps, making him clear his head a little, even if a traitorous portion of his brain is glancing at windows looking for John's reflection. 

Sherlock's never minded his low dom rating, but he doesn't advertise. It's not a personal issue, it's a professional one: many places refuse to hire people who have a low dom degree, worried that they'll be manipulated into disloyalty to their workplace. It's technically illegal to discriminate, but that doesn't stop them from claiming excuses like "inappropriate attire" and "just wasn't a good fit". Sherlock hires himself; as an independent contracting entity, he's the only one who needs to know about his dominance status. Well, and Mycroft, but not willingly. 

It's not until times like now that he finds himself frustrated with his lack. If he were higher or even just close to John's level, he wouldn't have his knees shaking, or his heart beating faster, or the pink flushing his cheeks at the thought of John saying 'kneel'. Graham doesn't find himself weak-kneed at the sight of John in leather; Sherlock would have noticed. Maybe. He was a bit distracted at the time. 

When they get to the club, Lestrade tries to keep Sherlock back with the rest of the crew, radio-tapped into John's wire from the alley, but instead, Sherlock hands him his coat, grabbing his wallet and phone out of the pocket, and undoes two buttons at the top of his shirt. He loosens his walk, changing his stride, and musses his hair just a bit, cocking his head to the side. He knows he has the effect he wants when Lestrade's tech at his right sharply inhales, and he smirks. "I'll just go in, then," he says, and moves toward the door before Lestrade can argue. Lestrade can't follow; it would be a dead giveaway. Sherlock gets in with a wink at the bouncer, accompanied by a soft bite of his lower lip, and almost regrets succeeding as he steps in.

The club is hot and humid. Smoke that isn't all tobacco lingers at the edges of the room, a darker counterpoint to the sharpness that is body odour, scent sprays, and the smell of alcohol. People are densely packed in the space, both on the dance floor and at the tables, and the bass makes Sherlock's lungs lose air with each beat. He struggles to get a breath in, then rights himself, pressing into the moving mass of humans, remembering the way to move with instead of against the flow, sinking back into the scene and making himself part of the crowd. It's a matter of mentality, and a few minutes later he's almost used to the smell and the press and the constant feel of people against his body. The problem is that he hasn't found John. 

He presses past a few more people, eyes alert for the man who's been suspected of human trafficking low-degreed people, but he doesn't see him. There are prostitutes but they're working of their own accord, and six drug dealers scattered where Sherlock can see. Sherlock clenches his fist, crooks his elbow, and then eases out the tension consciously. Not tonight. 

A man pinches his arse and Sherlock snaps a hand over his, slapping lightly. The drunk moves away and the shift of his shoulders reveals John. Sherlock's breath leaves again for a moment. John, far from looking uncomfortable, looks at home in the environment in a way that Sherlock wasn't expecting. It's like a bit of the typhoon has escaped the box. He's leaning against the bar, smirking and trading words with a man with at least sixteen tattoos and as many illegitimate children. John's natural affinity to danger slides into the chaos of the club and fits like a puzzle piece.

Sherlock wants to press him against the bar, press his nose to John's neck, see if he can smell the dust at the edges of the cyclone. And then he imagines John pressing him against the bar, and he has to swallow and look away to compose himself. 

When he looks back, John is gone. Sherlock curses his own incompetence, and does a turn, trying to find him again, and then the shouting starts. The crowd begins to pull back from an area of the room, and Sherlock forces his way through people, getting elbowed and elbowing in return, to see a man shouting at John. Ah. Found both John and the trafficker, then, and the trafficker doesn't seem pleased with the way John is shielding the -- god, the boy can't be more than fifteen. 

The man barks out something and Sherlock's mind wavers over nothing in particular, and he bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to listen as he forces himself closer, seeing one or two people struggle to stay standing. It's the natural instinct -- when someone's that much stronger than them, at their core, they want to collapse and crawl away if they're frightened, maybe stay on their knees if they're not. One man does fall over, but he's scrambling backwards. No one seems inclined to stay. Sherlock is worried as the man continues on his tirade, feeling his mind swim again as he gets closer. He can see the man begin to lose control, pull back for a punch, and John hasn't moved, and Sherlock's legs are jelly.

"Kneel down, you're scaring people," John says mildly, and Sherlock goes down to his knees like he was punched in the gut. Some part of him is mortified, but another portion is observing that he can't see anyone else standing. Some are flat on the floor, panting. John has caught the boy behind him before he could bruise his knees any further -- they already look purple, and some part of Sherlock is vaguely furious about what that means, but he's not entirely certain he  _remembers_  what it means right now. 

John looks around the room, and his expression isn't in the least surprised until his eyes hit Sherlock. Sherlock knows he's blushing, but it's a far away sort of feeling, and when John smiles his chest suffuses with warmth, and he decides not to worry about it. 

"What are you doing in here?" John asks, and he's carrying over the boy, who looks as dazed as Sherlock feels. Sherlock needs to answer, though, and he swallows.

"Followed. Didn't want to leave you alone. Dressed like that." Traitorous tongue, but he can't stop at a half-truth when his head is swimming. 

John pauses and tilts his head, and Sherlock stares up at him, eyes wide. For a moment the club is still, and then John's murmuring into the mic, "Yeah, you can come in," and there's noise at the door. The NSY crew murmur to themselves as they enter, but Sherlock can't actively focus on it. Someone's swearing, and it takes him a full ten seconds to process that it's the trafficker. His brain moves like molasses. John doesn't have the boy in his arms anymore -- oh, Lestrade's supporting him now, taking him to the medic.

A hand lands in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock's entire world shakes. His eyes slam closed, and his head drops forward, and then there are calloused fingers combing through his curls. He thinks he might feel each individual swirl of fingerprint cells straight through his skull and down his spine. 

"Get up, Sherlock, let's go home," John says, and Sherlock stands without thinking, despite mourning the loss of the hand in his hair. His knees are firm now, but only because John has directed it so, and he leads the way out of the club with quick strides. John is pulling out the mic as he walks and hands it to Donovan as they leave, and then Sherlock hails them a cab halfway down the street. 

John is watching him, and Sherlock lets the knowledge of his gaze sink comfortably into his bones, settling like it belongs there, as the cab takes them through the muted tones of London at night. They get out at Baker Street, and Sherlock leads the way upstairs and stops because this was as far as John had directed. He looks at John, waiting for more. 

John is taking off his shoes and coat, and then turns to see Sherlock still in his coat, and swallows. His eyes are dilated, his pulse strong in his throat, and Sherlock wants to sink to his knees, but then John says, "Bed, I think. God knows I want -- but not now. Not when you can't talk about it, look at you, you're --" he snaps his jaw shut, squeezes and relaxes his left fist, and then nods sharply to himself. "Go to bed, Sherlock, properly, and get some sleep, and in the morning we'll talk about this, yeah?"

 _No._  But John's right, Sherlock isn't in any position to state what he wants --  _on his knees, John's warm approval, hand in his hair, taste_ \-- and John's voice is still strong and heavy and Sherlock's mind clings to it like a raft in a storm, so he turns toward his room. He's halfway down the hall when John says, "Wait."

Sherlock stops immediately, looking back hopefully, but John just says, "You did -- you did well tonight. I know you might not think so, but -- you did. So no self-beating in the morning." 

The order makes Sherlock's mind pause, and he nods once in acknowledgement, and John nods back. "Bed," he says again, and Sherlock turns back to his room. He takes off his clothes, putting them away or in the hamper as needed, and changes into pyjamas, brushing his teeth and using the loo, because John had told him to "Go to bed  _properly_ ",  and so Sherlock does. 

He falls asleep, head heavy and warm and dark, and doesn't wake until morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken's poem Saying Your Names in Crush. I'm planning to continue in this 'verse (I'm halfway through the second instalment) so please let me know how you feel about it! Word-building is terrifying and if things aren't clear I'd like to know.


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